


Seven Days

by Wynn



Category: Firefly, Serenity (2005)
Genre: F/M, Ficlet, Newly uploaded to AO3, Older Fic, Post-Serenity, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-14
Updated: 2013-12-14
Packaged: 2018-01-04 14:06:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1081908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wynn/pseuds/Wynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wants to muss her. Just a bit. Draw his fingers through her hair like Serenity through clouds, leaving a billow of soft brown behind. He wants to smudge that gloss, that red, red gloss he can see with his eyes closed in the dark of his bunk in the most remote edge of space. She doesn’t fit in the rough and tumble confines of Serenity, so perfectly composed, perfectly presented with her smooth dress, smooth walk, smooth words. From the first moment she stepped aboard, she stuck out like the most beautiful polished thumb in the damn galaxy, and his hands just itched to muss her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seven Days

**Author's Note:**

> An older fic, originally posted on LJ.

He wants to muss her. Just a bit. Draw his fingers through her hair like Serenity through clouds, leaving a billow of soft brown behind. He wants to smudge that gloss, that red, red gloss he can see with his eyes closed in the dark of his bunk in the most remote edge of space. She doesn’t fit in the rough and tumble confines of Serenity, so perfectly composed, perfectly presented with her smooth dress, smooth walk, smooth words. From the first moment she stepped aboard, she stuck out like the most beautiful polished thumb in the damn galaxy, and his hands just itched to muss her. 

It was like he was ten years old again, his mama swattin’ his hands for messing with her fresh baked cookies. He couldn’t help himself. They looked so damn good, round and warm and smelling like the heaven Preacher Wilkins talked about Sunday mornings. And he just wanted to sink into that perfection, feel it, mark it, make it his. 

And that’s how it is with Inara. 

Perfection. 

Temptation. 

Even her name sounds like the heaven he knows Preacher Wilkins lied about those Sunday mornings. Inara. Floating out on the exhale, curling up around his ears, sinking down into his mind like hazy summer afternoons on Shadow. Inara. Three weeks of feeling it, rolling the ‘n’ on his tongue, marking it, molding his lips ‘round the ‘r’, and then making it his. 

‘Nara. 

Mussing it. Just a bit.

She made no objection to the change. Quirked a brow, sent him a sidelong glance, but kept her peace. 

The next week she called him Mal for the first time. 

So when she stands in his Serenity, mussed, hair loose and free about her shoulders, lips bare of the red his heart bleeds every time he sees her, he waits a week. One week. Seven days, seven nights passed in his bunk, fingers twitching at his sides, dreaming of downy brown clouds. 

Then he’s at her door, stepping into her shuttle ‘cause it’s always her shuttle no matter where in the ‘verse she might be, and brushes his fingertips through her hair. Feeling it.

She quirks a brow, glances down at his hand, then peers up at him through her lashes, those damn lashes he knows feel just like soft grass beneath his feet on a spring morning. 

He curls his other hand around her shoulder, her bare shoulder dotted with freckles and flushing beneath his skin. Marking it.

Those lips, pink, slick with gloss, part, and his name drifts out on the exhale, floats up, curls around his ear, and draws him down toward her. She smells like the heaven he lost in that valley of shadow and death, the heaven he needs to exist again if only in this moment, and he breathes her in, breathes in sunflowers and solace and Sundays spent running ‘round the ranch in the midday sun. 

“‘Nara…” 

His lips touch hers. She tastes like apples. He sinks in, she softens beneath him, surges up, gasps as he slides his hands ‘round her waist, over the curve of her back, up through her hair, leaving a billow of brown behind. Their tongues touch in the middle, and it’s anything but smooth. It’s hot and wet and heavenly, and he knows he’s destined for the special hell, knew it from the moment she glided past him into Serenity and sent him a sidelong glance from under that damned lacy veil of hers, held his gaze steady, steady, oh so steady, eyes wide and ringed with the black of space, lips red, red like cherries, hair soft and smooth and curled about her head in perfect spirals, breathing out his name on the exhale and making him hers.

Hers.

Hers.

He draws back and she sighs into the space between them. He steps back, loosens his fingers from her hair, leaves the smooth curls a tangle of soft brown. He holds her gaze steady, steady, oh so steady, and she lifts a hand to her lips, plush, flushed with blood, free of the gloss he can taste on his tongue and feel on his lips, and her eyes wide, black as space, follow him as he steps back out the shuttle and closes the door behind him.

Making her his.  
…………


End file.
